Whoever said "change is good" clearly doesn't have an anxiety disorder...

So.

Yeah.

"Change Is Good".

Whoever made that line up was entirely misquoted. They incorrectly spell the word "terrifying" with the letters G - O - O - D.

An obvious oversight.

Want me to sob heartily but silently, alone, in the bathroom stall at a strange airport?
Introduce change. (And perhaps allow me to grab the REAL large yogurt container from the fridge, instead of the OLD large yogurt container that is holding my leftover quinoa bean salad [intended to be my gluten-free meal on the flight back to Toronto]. And let me get stopped at security. And let the words "quinoa" and "beans" escape my mind, so I look extremely suspect and unable to explain to the agent why I was honestly not trying to smuggle 475mL of liquid-yogurt through airport security. Let the agent warn me, give me a once over, and shake his head in disgust as he throws out the real yogurt intended for my husband. Perhaps also be added to the no-fly list).

Want me to hold my body more rigid with tension than a CSI corpse while holding my breath, for hours at a time?
Introduce change. (And throw in driving someone else's car with super soft brakes into the mix, just to heighten the fear factor.)

Want me to re-assess everything I have ever owned, forcing emotionally-charged decision after decision, donating, tossing and packing things?
Introduce change. (And then get the hell outta Dodge, because someone is going to get hurt).

Want me to drive like a 90-year old woman with cataracts on strange, new roads?
Introduce change. (You know, maybe this one isn't such a bad idea. The slow part, not the cataracts part).

 
Stephanie, I'd like you to meet fetal position.
Fetal Position? Here, please let me introduce you to Stephanie.
I think you two will get along swimmingly.


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Oh Shit.

Do you ever do that thing?

You know, that thing where you're kind of unaware and then that thing starts happening?

For me it started innocently enough. I traded my old impala in for a nice, compact, fuel-efficient car. (points for better gas mileage and environmental consideration).

Fast forward about 3.5 years and I'm in the new (okay, 2006) compact car.
After running to various flower shops, quite inefficiently, all the while failing to find purple roses for my niece's birthday.
Rush, rush, rush.
After having poorly planned the day and getting on the treadmill late, and being chubby and stinky, and showering late and.... (less points for poor time management and stupidity).

You know, that thing where you remind your husband to check his windshield washer fluid as he's driving, because you're terrified you'll get stuck behind a transport on the highway in slushy weather with no wiper fluid to save your ass from filthy, sandy mush, flung high speed at your windshield. Like it did to you two years ago in your compact car and you nearly drove off the highway because you couldn't see. You know, right? (less points for being an annoyingly nagging wife).

That thing where you ensured he checked his, BUT DIDN'T CHECK YOUR OWN. Because you keep forgetting that it was the OLD IMPALA that had the courtesy to let you know that you were getting LOW on fluid, whereas the new compact car just says;

"Hey you stupid motherf_cker, looks like you're outta washer fluid!!"
"Have a nice    day   death!"

You know, that thing. Where you are on the highway, doing 125 km/hr, trying to arrive with non-purple roses in time in another city, in the fast lane, in rainy/slushy weather.

And that damn OH-SHIT light comes on.

Oh well, I lived to make it to the next town and thank goodness had the paranoia and foresight to pack extra washer fluid in the trunk (I ABHOR paying $6 at the gas station for it when you can get it for $2 at the grocery store).

Lived to tell the tale. (bonus points for surviving an untimely death).

Damn I hate this compact minimalist-bells-and-whistles business.

I need a Hummer. Or, rather, maybe my husband does (tee hee).

After all, his washer fluid WAS topped up and I ran out...
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Honeymoon Travel From Hell - Part 2

Continued from Part One...


So, we arrived at Pearson airport with just enough time for me to find the parking lot washroom. Thank the gods that we got a spot so close or the honeymoon would have started out really shitty. I mean... like, REALLY SHITTY.

We ran through the airport trying to find our check in location. The New Husband had Air Canada "Elite" status, which allowed us into the slightly faster line-up, but behind other "Elite" people. Then, if a "Super Elite" person comes along, they jump the entire line. And they kept coming.

I couldn't hold back the silent tears any more and started to sob in the airport, against my better judgement.

The guy in front of us asked if we were in a hurry, and he let us pass. Thank you Nice Guy.

We then spent another 15-20 minutes trying to check in at the desk, unsure if we were really ON the flight or on stand-by... The Toronto Air Canada employee knew something was amiss in our file, but said we would have to sort it out once we arrived in London.

She somehow cancelled something and then had to place us BACK on the outbound flight. A very stressful 5 minute period of potentially losing seats to other people with higher status on stand-by. (She could have saved us SO MUCH HEADACHE, had she just told us that our new flights didn't connect, but she evidently couldn't be bothered  to take the time to help us...)

We made it through security, with tears streaming down my face (probably looking guilty of something, simply because my anxiety level was so high).

We cleared security and ran towards the gate.

But, we stopped in briefly to the Air Canada Lounge (The New Husband always has access with his Air Canada Elite status), to see if THOSE employees could tell us what our ticket showed, if we still had connecting flights, and what flight we were booked on for the way home, in case that was changed and no one bothered to tell us.

The employees at the desk all made strange faces and pointed to the monitor (that we couldn't see), yet wouldn't take a minute to tell us that part of our flight HAD INDEED been cancelled, and that our connecting flights were scheduled in such a way that they NEVER F_CKING connected.

Thanks Air Canada.

The guy's advice at the desk? "Just try checking in online for your Sri Lankan air flights" with a smirk.

The New Husband tried quickly in the business centre there, but alas, our reservation was not found.

Just fan-f_cking-tastic.

At least we were on the flight to London, right? Yes, that part was good.
Before boarding, I called my mom in tears, not sure if we had connecting flights once we arrived in London.

Extra-super-awesome bonus? Because we were slapped onto this flight last minute, I was screwed for my special meal requirements, AKA, I had nothing to eat. The Air Canada flight attendant said, and I quote:

"I can't afford to just give you it, but you can buy the bean salad I brought with me."

Ummm. No thanks. (I also wondered if she accepted a credit card swipe down her butt for said salad... or if she knew my mom's old saying to "never take bean salad from a stranger??!?").

And longer flights like these don't offer food for sale, so I was royally screwed. And not in the fun honeymoon kind of way. Screwed, stressed and hungry.

So off we went in the skies, not knowing what would await us at Heathrow Airport...



More to follow...

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What The F*ck, Exercise? Seriously?

I figured now that I've  put weight back on  getting married in the fall  decided to get healthier, I'd bust out the ole sports bra and start moving and shakin' again.

I find, most often, the hardest part is   getting out of bed   putting down the bag of Doritos   brushing my teeth and leaving the house   actually putting on the workout gear, and running shoes. Once that's done  and the Dorito crumb have been brushed off somewhat   it's easy-peasy-lemon-squeez-y to get to the workout facility/gym/bed.

So... uh... yeah, anyway... I actually GET my ass to the gym. I forget my own yoga mat (ALWAYS) and have the guts to put my bare feet on a potentially-fungus-covered public-use yoga mat. Socks are off. Sitting on my arse bones waiting for class to start.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Wishing.

Not to be confused with a Jack Johnson song. Much less trippy-esque, much more potential foot fungus. Maybe even butt fungus. Yoga pants are only so thick, people.

Your ass could be next.

Then, after some more waiting, the instructor doesn't show up. W.T.F. Seriously?? ....REALLY?? Seriously? I put in all this effort to   cease consuming Doritos  get my ass down here and you can't be bothered to show up to your teaching post? Not even call? Just let the room full of us sit there like assholes, waiting, wishing?

Puts the "LAY" in Frito-Lay?

See, the Doritos appear to be the better choice. Or, at the very least, the most INTERESTING choice.

So, fine. Not to be discouraged,   though all it takes is one instance of bullshit to make me want to throw my hands in the air, sulk like a victim and never return   I head back to yoga. To find out that it has been indefinitely cancelled. SERIOUSLY?? (See people, this is why this blog is named the way it is).

Fine, f*ck you skinny yoga beeyotch.

I'll try Zumba. I tried a fitness studio elsewhere, in another town, with KICKASS Zumba results.

Back in my hometown, after eating a few bags of Twizzlers, I decided to brush the cobwebs off my gym membership card. And try Zumba once more.

Oh lordy.

My assumption was that you had to have rhythm to instruct these classes. You know, at least keep to the beat. I know, I am so fucking demanding, aren't I?

The instructor couldn't even dance. Hear that? COULDN'T.EVEN.DANCE.  Everyone around me was named Mae, and Ethel, and Myrtle. (No, not the turtle). Fuck. Really? Seriously?



Thought I would give another instructor a chance. Got on my gear. Went to the gym. Waited for Zumba class to start. No instructor showed. No call. Nothing. Front desk staff said they had no idea what was going on.

DAMMIT.

Seriously?

I'm  expanding because of it  lovin' it. Goddamn dollar drink days.

I'm going to McDonald's to get a large Coke. I'm pretty sure the 82 grams of sugar will make me feel better. And help wash down these Doritos.

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Already One of THOSE Days

You know your day is not starting off on the right foot when your great dane hops on the bed (before your alarm clock goes off) and farts in your face. Intentionally. Well, I can only assume it was intentional.

Our special boy.

As my few followers know, I've been battling illness(es) since May of 2009, when I got food poisoning at a pizza place during mother's day dinner. Yes, nothing but the best for my mother. Somehow *I* chose the place, and Pizza Hut is apparently all my mom is worth. What a terrible daughter. Moving along....

(Don't worry, they aren't terminal... the illnesses I mean... or I suppose the restaurant, but I will never go back). Immediately after this meal, much gastrointestinal trauma ensued... for... well.... still.

This morning, once the alarm went off, I could just FEEL the awfulness in my body. Waking to extreme nausea is not fun (and it had seemed that the terrible-horrible worst of that had eased up on me in June-ish). And no, I am not pregnant.

For those of you who have never experienced the joy of nausea, imagine your worst hangover and how that made you feel. Now imagine feeling like that most mornings you wake up, coupled with no appetite, and that whole necessity of being able to function as an adult and that attending work thing.

Look at how lovingly she stares into that bowl. Perhaps she recently had a bathroom reno as well?

I am writing this post, trying to move as little as possible, waiting for my (expensive, super-duper strength) nausea medication to kick in.

One option. Not the particular medication I took today, though.

In my "trooper"-i-ness, I showered (managed to bang my head hard off of the new, very hard, ceramic tile in the shower), forced myself to have rice protein powder (then discovered the nearly straight, 10" trail of it down my once-clean white shirt), then decided an orange would help me absorb the iron I am so depleted of (and it ended up being all hard/crunchy and dried out on the inside.... please tell me I am not the only person this happens to).

Yellow airbrush is approximation of inedible, dry, gross part of orange. Remainder was barely edible.

Days like this make me fear more for my sanity. (I mean, c'mon, we all know it's teetering regularly).

Days like this make me fear for my job security. There are only so many emails and phone calls in to work that essentially say "Hi, yes, yes it is me again. I am feeling like that World Cup Goalie from England after missing that save, whilst being mocked by the world while feeling like I am going to barf up RICE PROTEIN POWDER while still recovering from the hurtful, fart-filled subliminal messages from my dog, while I take my medications and hope for the best. Flawed? Why, yes, I am thank you. Hope not to be too late. Will be there soon."

Some days I wish I could be like Paul Coffey in the Green Mile and just touch someone's hand so that they can feel what I feel and think what I think. Obviously only for a few seconds, wouldn't want to permanently eff them up or anything, but just to give them some understanding (and perhaps some credibility for myself).

Let's hope the day gets better from here. I am going to work now. I hope the nausea goes away. :-( Pin It Now!